


Multiple Choice

by cypress_tree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, BAMF!John, Choose Your Own Ending, Choose Your Own Genre, Clothed Sex, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Frottage, Humor, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, a little bit of casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:36:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 17,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Sherlock/John choose-your-own-adventure written for <a href="http://reapersun.tumblr.com/">reapersun,</a> as part of tumblr's <a href="http://sherlocksecretsanta.tumblr.com/">Sherlock Secret Santa.</a>  You, as the reader, will be given choices as to what the characters do and/or what happens in the plot.  These choices will determine the outcome of the story.  Each ending is inspired by a different piece of fanart by reapersun, which is linked to at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



John wakes up to the feeling of warm sunshine on his face. He forgot to close the shade the night before, but doesn’t remember this until he opens one sleepy eye, only to shut it quickly against the light. He takes a deep breath and raises one hand to rub at his eyes before opening them again, more carefully.

It’s Saturday, and he’s thankful. He doesn’t have to work at the clinic, and although Sherlock is currently without a case, he should still be in a good mood. He has been ever since Wednesday, when he came home from the morgue carrying a bag of hands.

John turns over onto his back to find Sherlock curled up behind him, face pressed against the edge of John's pillow. John is unsure if Sherlock is sleeping or not, until he lifts a hand to push a curl away from Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock opens his eyes.

“Morning,” John murmurs, his voice rough from disuse.

Sherlock doesn’t answer, just pulls the blankets up higher and nudges his face forward until his forehead touches John’s shoulder. John closes his eyes and feels Sherlock’s breath against his arm. The day is still young. He can sleep for a few more minutes.

 

 ---

When John next opens his eyes, it is because a restless Sherlock is shifting away from him. He rolls over into the empty space that Sherlock left behind, basking in the warmth of the blankets.

“Are you going to lie in bed all day?” Sherlock complains. He pulls on his dressing gown, looking down at John with one raised eyebrow.

“Look who’s talking,” John responds. “Wasn’t it you who slept in until well past noon last weekend?”

“Hmm. Your fault for keeping me up all night.”

John flashes a grin, but Sherlock doesn’t see it. He probably didn’t even intend the innuendo. With a flick of his dressing gown, he leaves the room and makes his way downstairs. John gives an exasperated groan into the pillow. His plan of flirting Sherlock back into bed has clearly failed. But, again, the day is still young.

 

 ---

When John arrives downstairs, he finds two empty mugs next to the kettle. The kettle is dry, and Sherlock is lying on the sofa reading the newspaper. John rolls his eyes, though he knows that Sherlock can’t see him. He goes to the sink and fills the kettle. He can almost sense Sherlock’s triumphant smirk, but Sherlock hands him the international news section as John walks into the sitting room, so he decides not to say anything.

They sit facing each other on opposite ends of the sofa, legs outstretched and tangling together. Sherlock rubs at John’s thigh absently with one foot, until he gets bored. He throws the paper on the floor next to him and sighs loudly, causing John to raise an eyebrow. When John doesn't look at him, Sherlock shoves his bare feet into the sliver of space between John's body and the arm of the sofa. John looks at him over the paper.

"What are you doing?"

"It's cold."

"It's December, and you're going without socks."

John resumes his reading, ignoring Sherlock's melodramatic sighs. Finally, Sherlock starts shifting and restlessly wiggling his toes behind John's back. John drops the paper and gives him a half-hearted glare.

“Alright, what are we doing today?” he asks. “Clearly you need something to do before your brain rots.”

Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, then comes to a decision.

 

 

 ---

[[“We should have breakfast”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095437) - chapter 2]

[[“We’re out of condoms. Let’s get some more.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095445) - chapter 3]

[[“I need to go to St. Bart’s.”](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095541) - chapter 9]

[[Sherlock is about to speak when his phone rings](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095650) - chapter 12]


	2. "We should have breakfast"

_Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, then comes to a decision._

“We should have breakfast,” he says.

John allows for a few beats of silence, then—“Breakfast?” he asks.

Sherlock nods. “Breakfast.”

“Since when do you eat breakfast?”

John thinks he should probably be taking Sherlock’s mischievous grin as a warning. Sherlock stands up and heads towards what was once his bedroom.

“Make me something good,” he calls behind him. “And I’ll reward you.”

John wanders into the kitchen, encouraged by the unspoken promise of morning sex. He opens the refrigerator, but unfortunately, due to a bit of a mishap earlier in the week involving three different types of bacteria, their choice of breakfast foods is limited. He pulls a tin of oatmeal from a cupboard, instead.

“Do you seriously think I’m going to reward you for cooking oatmeal?”

John turns around with a frown. Sherlock is at the end of the hallway, holding something behind his back and looking at John with vague displeasure.

“Well maybe if someone had cleaned the mess from their Petri dishes out of the refrigerator a little earlier, we’d have some nice eggs or something.” John’s voice falters a bit as Sherlock walks towards him, his eyes looking a bit predatory. “Until we can use it again, all our food will be from tins.”

Sherlock silently nods toward the pot, and John brings it over to the sink and gets out a measuring cup.

“What’s that you’ve got behind your back, then?” he asks. Sherlock grabs a handful of John’s jumper and pulls back sharply, causing John to spill water down the front of his shirt. “Sherlock, what the—”

“Oh, John, you’ve made a mess.”

“Your fault, you nutter. What the hell was that for?” John is about to pull away from Sherlock when Sherlock crowds him against the sink and reveals what he had been hiding behind his back: a red apron with white trim.

John raises an eyebrow. “What is that?” he asks.

“An apron. Clearly you need one.” Sherlock slips the apron over John’s head and turns him around gently to tie it closed. “Continue with your cooking.”

John is only slightly distracted by the way Sherlock smoothes the apron down his chest. He’s not sure that it is necessary to touch someone quite this much while helping them put on an apron, but he is not about to object. He measures the appropriate amount of water and brings the pot over to the stove, turning it on to boil.

“And where did this apron come from, may I ask?”

“I bought it for you.” Sherlock’s hands squeeze John’s hips once, then he kisses the back of John’s neck. “I saw it in a shop window. Doesn’t it look familiar?” John feels Sherlock’s fingertips slip under the hem of his shirt and tickle at his skin. He begins to resent the way Sherlock’s hands make him lose his train of thought so easily.

"No, Sherlock. No, it does not look familiar,” he says. “Unlike some people, I haven’t memorized every article of clothing that I’ve ever seen in a shop window.”

Sherlock digs his nails into John’s back in retaliation for the sarcasm. John jumps a bit and tries to suppress his laugh, but Sherlock hears it escape.

“The colour doesn’t remind you of anything?” Sherlock is practically purring now, right into John’s ear. John shivers and directs his attention to a can of something-or-other that is resting on the counter. After a moment, he realises it’s tinned spinach. He puts it back down.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Sherlock mouths at John’s earlobe. His fingers are still teasing at John’s skin, frustratingly refusing to go any higher or lower than his waist.

“I’ll have to remind you, then.” Sherlock starts punctuating his sentences with kisses down John’s nape. “The red fabric and white trim...just reminded me...when I saw it in the shop window...of a certain pair of pants that you own.”

John’s eyes had been closed, but they fly open at Sherlock’s words.

“Oh, god. What is it with you and those pants?”

Sherlock reaches around and takes the tin of oatmeal from John’s hands, where John had been clutching it without thinking. He places it on the countertop: a silent indication that breakfast can wait. John turns off the stove and pushes the pot of water to the back burner.

He moves to turn around, but Sherlock holds him firmly in place and shifts them down the counter, away from the stove. He takes two steps forward until he is pressing John up against the cupboard. John feels his heartbeat speed up. Sherlock leans him forward until John is bent over the countertop, then he plasters himself over John’s body, pressing into him from chest to thighs. John can feel Sherlock’s erection pressing into his sacrum.

Sherlock runs his hands down John’s outstretched arms, then slowly slides them back up and towards the strings of the apron. He tugs on the strings to pull John in.

“How convenient,” he murmurs. John feels Sherlock’s breath against his ear, and shivers.

Sherlock keeps John pulled close with one hand. He slips his other hand under the apron, feeling for the bulge in John’s trousers. When he finds it, they both let out little moans. Sherlock grinds his hips closer into John’s arse.

They are both completely clothed, and John thinks it’s crazy how arousing this is. His trousers are tight and the friction is almost unbearable, and he can feel the heat of Sherlock’s palm through two layers of cloth. He pushes back, and Sherlock presses forward, and starts rubbing against John like an animal. He pulls on the ties of the apron to keep John close.

“Do you have...some sort of...apron fetish?” John asks, choking out his words between quickening breaths. He feels Sherlock’s tongue against his neck.

“I have a John Watson fetish,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds like syrup, and John stifles a moan.

Sherlock unbuttons John’s trousers with one hand, and slides inside, over his pants.

“You’re not wearing the red ones,” he says, with the hint of a whine.

“How can you tell? You can’t see from back there.”

“You think I can’t tell the difference between your pants from the sense of touch alone?”

John begins to chuckle, but it turns into a very embarrassing whimper when Sherlock gives him a squeeze. There’s a wet spot growing on the front of John’s pants, and Sherlock rubs his fingers over it as if he wants to memorize the texture. He continues pushing into John, his hips shifting up and down and in maddening circles. His breaths start to become staggered. John throws an arm back and grips Sherlock’s arse with one hand. Sherlock bites his neck in response.

They’re still clothed, and it’s infuriating and incredibly sexy. John has never desired the feeling of Sherlock’s skin so badly. He’s tempted to grip Sherlock’s wrist and shove it into the front of his pants, but he knows that that would ruin the fun. Sherlock must be feeling this too—he starts stroking higher until his fingers dip into John’s pants and brush over the head of his cock. John gasps. He tries to buck forward, but Sherlock is pulling him back tightly. He flings his head back onto Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock kisses him hard, and it’s only three more swipes of Sherlock’s fingers before John is coming. Sherlock isn’t far behind. In the same number of thrusts, he is groaning into John's temple. John takes one last unsteady inhale. If he hadn’t orgasmed just seconds ago, he would probably be hard again over the thought of Sherlock coming without touching himself.

Sherlock pulls his hand out of John’s pants, and John turns around to finally face him.

“You bought me an apron?” he asks, with glazed eyes and a smile. His knees feel just a bit wobbly.

Sherlock shrugs. “I was innocently walking past the shops when I saw it. The colour caught my eye, and I...reacted to the images that it brought to mind. It would have been embarrassing had I not been wearing my coat.”

John laughs and kisses him. “You know, I’m actually glad that I didn’t return them when Amazon sent me the wrong ones.”

“As am I. They’re an anomaly. Much like yourself.”

Sherlock wipes his hand on a nearby flannel. They spend a few moments snogging in the afterglow before Sherlock pulls away.

“Do you...do you really expect me to eat oatmeal?” he asks.

John laughs. “Let’s go out for breakfast,” he says.

 

 

 ---

[[You have reached the apron ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10398698689/sherlocks-thinkin-about-how-the-apron-matches)]


	3. "We're out of condoms.  Let's get some more."

_Sherlock looks thoughtful for a moment, then comes to a decision._

“We’re out of condoms,” Sherlock says. John looks back at him blankly. “So...we should get some more?”

It may be the first time that Sherlock has ever suggested they go shopping together. John begins to get suspicious of his motives.

“Alright...” he says, slowly.

“Why do you look so wary?”

“Because you’re suggesting we go shopping.”

“So that we can buy condoms. And therefore have mess-free sex later. Is it really that unusual?”

John decides not to argue.

 

\---

Sherlock is already in his coat and scarf when John comes out of the bedroom after dressing.

"Is there some kind of rush?" he asks. "Is Tesco expecting a condom shortage?" Sherlock just shoves John's coat into his arms and walks out the door.

Mrs Hudson is coming in just as they are walking out. She smiles at them with her arms full of grocery bags, and John holds the door open.

"Oh, thank you dear," she says. "You boys off somewhere this morning?"

"Just a bit of shopping," says John quickly.

Not quickly enough. Sherlock blurts "We're out of condoms," and John gives him a swift elbow to the side. Mrs. Hudson just laughs.

"Well can't have that, now can we?" she asks. “Go run down to Tesco.”

John nods goodbye and gives Sherlock an exasperated glare, but Sherlock consciously avoids it. John can see the grin struggling to tug at the corners of his mouth.

Outside, clouds litter the sky, and the weather can't seem to make up its mind between sun and rain. Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket and texts as he walks. John would argue about this being rather rude, but he's used to it by now. When they reach Tesco, John leads Sherlock to the correct aisle, because Sherlock has not memorised the layout of the grocery store like he has memorised the layout of St. Bart’s and New Scotland Yard. John clears his throat to get Sherlock’s attention.

 ---

[[The condoms are there](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095459) - chapter 4]

[[Tesco is out of condoms](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095468) - chapter 5]

[[Tesco has condoms, but not the right brand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095528) - chapter 8]


	4. The condoms are there

_John clears his throat to get Sherlock’s attention._

"How many should we get?" John asks.

Sherlock shoves his phone back into his pocket and shrugs. They both scoot forward to make room for a woman behind them with a trolley.

Sherlock takes a breath. "Well on average we have sex about three times a week. We don't use a condom every time, as we're both clean and in an exclusive relationship, so it’s really more about the mess. We should actually take my average number of cases per month into consideration. I’ve noticed that post-case sex can be particularly lethargic due to our lack of energy. But then there are the times when we have post-case adrenaline-rush sex against the wall, and we almost never use a condom then..."

A teenage boy gives them a curious look as he leans past boldly to grab a pack of condoms. John avoids eye contact.

"Sherlock, could you keep it down?"

"Really, no matter how many we buy, we’ll be using them all. Unless we buy the store's entire stock. Though even then, we would be physically capable of using them all. We could even try to use them all by the end of the year, which would mean we’d have to have sex multiple times per day and use a condom every time. Which would be tiring, but I wouldn't be adverse to it—"

"Sherlock—"

"Though I would grow to regret that sliver of latex between us."

John rubs at his temples and waits until the aisle is clear of people to speak. When he looks up, Sherlock is grinning at him.

"You do this on purpose, don't you?" John asks.

"I like seeing you blush."

John decides that they should get only one box, because of what Sherlock had said about “regretting the sliver of latex." He then drags Sherlock around other parts of the store to pick up cheese, tinned beans, and dish soap. Sherlock sits in the aisle of household cleaners for a bit, reading the ingredients labels, but ends up leaving the aisle empty-handed.

John stops by the produce section before they check out, and Sherlock thinks he is spending much too long looking at carrots.

"You know," he says lazily. "I never noticed this store's rampant shoplifting problem."

John drops a bag of carrots into their basket. "Shoplifting?" he asks, mildly curious.

"Mmm. I've seen at least three people steal in the fifteen minutes that we've been in the store. Including that blonde woman at the till over there. She's bold, doing it in full view of customers."

"I think you're the only one observant enough to notice."

"Check out with her. I want to know why she's doing it."

"Alright, we’ll check out with her, despite the fact that her queue is longest." John rolls his eyes as they walk towards the checkout.

"Hand her something. I need to get a clear view of her fingers."

"You hand her something. You’re perfectly capable, aren’t you?"

John regrets suggesting this almost immediately when Sherlock grabs the box of condoms from their basket and clutches them tightly in one hand as they wait. He is wearing a suspicious scowl, and if the cashier’s facial expression is anything to judge by, she has noticed that he’s staring at her.

Sherlock observes suspiciously from behind John’s back as John unloads the basket. The cashier tries to ignore Sherlock, staring straight at John instead.

“Find everything you needed?” she asks.

John nods. “Yes, thank you.” He nudges Sherlock with his elbow as the she starts scanning their items. Sherlock flings an arm forward and hands her the condoms. She scans them quickly without making eye contact.

“How much have you taken today?” Sherlock asks, casually.

The cashier glances up at him. “Pardon?”

“Five pounds? Ten? Twenty? ...Ah, there it is in your face. More than ten, less than twenty.”

“I haven’t the slightest what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t. Count your change carefully, John.” John looks from Sherlock to the cashier and hands her a credit card instead. People behind them in line start to watch the conversation with interest.

“Is this really worth it, Sherlock?” John asks.

The cashier looks at Sherlock, affronted. “I’m sorry, are you accusing me of stealing?”

“You’ve been under-ringing people all morning. You’re overly friendly and engage them in conversation so that they aren’t looking at the display when you ring them up. Then you keep coins there on the counter to remind yourself of how much extra is in the till for you to remove later.” Sherlock almost looks bored, though by now he has gathered a bit of an audience. “You’re not in need of the money—your manicure and designer top show me that, and your fingers get a little twitchy in your down-time, like they wish they were doing something. Kleptomania, I’d say. It’s not the money you need, it’s the rush of adrenaline that you get whenever you steal.”

By now, they have attracted the attention of another employee, an older man who is clearly in some position of authority.

“Can I help you with anything?” he asks, looking down his nose at Sherlock.

Sherlock looks him over quickly, then shakes his head. He takes John’s card back from the cashier and passes it to John as John collects their bags. Everyone is staring at them as they walk out.

“What was that all about?” asks John as they exit the store. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sherlock sighs. “He’s in on it. He turns a blind eye as long as she gives him a portion of what she takes each day.”

“How can you—”

“His shoes. Her reaction to his presence. Dull.”

John laughs. "Well it’s at least more exciting than sitting alone in the flat, yeah? You going to come shopping with me more often now?”

Sherlock snorts. "I think not. But if you ever find a dead body in the produce section, let me know and I'll be there in a flash."

 

 ---

[[You have reached the Tesco ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/29541575106/sherlock-hanging-all-over-john-at-tesco-maybe)]


	5. Tesco is out of condoms

_John clears his throat to get Sherlock’s attention._

Sherlock looks up and raises his eyebrows. Tesco is completely out of condoms. John glances up and down the aisle, in case they've been moved, but there are none to be found. He catches the attention of an employee nearby, who is stocking a display of lubricant.

"Excuse me," he says. " Um...are you completely sold out of condoms?"

The woman gives him a tired look and nods. "Bunch of kids came in this morning and totally wiped us out. Sorry."

Sherlock frowns. He takes John by the arm and pulls him towards the exit. "This is ridiculous," he seethes. "Who ever heard of a store being completely sold out of condoms?"

"Probably uni kids having an orgy," says John. Sherlock boggles at him. "I'm kidding. More likely it was a prank."

When they get outside, the sun has disappeared. The sky is turning grey, and the clouds in the distance are looking threatening. They start heading home.

"You know, we could have picked up a few things while we were there," John says. "I'm pretty sure we need tinned beans for one. Carrots, maybe." Sherlock shrugs.

They cut through Regent's Park, where the few people they come across are looking up at the sky with anxious expressions and hurrying to get out of the anticipated storm. Sherlock notices as well, and starts walking a bit faster. They’re almost out of the park when a voice calls out from behind them.

"Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!"

John turns around to see a tall, handsome blonde man running towards them. He's giving Sherlock a warm smile. Sherlock hides his surprise quickly.

"Victor," Sherlock says. He seems a bit speechless.

"Fancy meeting you here, eh? I knew you were living in London, but...well it's a big city, what are the chances?" Victor glances at John and smiles, then turns his attention back to Sherlock.

"Indeed...what are you doing here? I thought you were living in France now?"

"I am, but Mother still lives here in the city. I came back for Christmas."

John nudges Sherlock with his elbow, but Sherlock doesn't seem to take a hint. Victor notices instead.

"I'm sorry, I don't think we've met," he says. He holds out a hand. "Victor Trevor. Sherlock and I went to uni together."

Sherlock finally seems to catch on to social niceties as John reaches out to shake Victor's hand.

"This is John, my..."

 

\---

[["Flatmate"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095485) - chapter 6]

[["Partner"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095512) - chapter 7]


	6. "Flatmate."

"This is John, my...flatmate."

John shoots Sherlock a wounded look, and Sherlock immediately turns away. Victor notices.

"Nice to meet you, John," he says politely. There’s a moment of silence, during which everyone seems to be avoiding each others’ gaze.

“So what are you doing nowadays?” asks Victor.

“I’m a detective. I...consult for Scotland Yard.”

Victor looks impressed. “Really? Sounds exciting.” He glances at John. “So you two...live together, then?”

“Yes. John’s a doctor, and he helps me on cases.”

Victor nods, apparently struggling to find something to say. John’s jaw is set. He keeps his eyes focused elsewhere.

“Well it’s nice to see you again,” says Victor. He looks between Sherlock and John quickly. “We’ll have to catch up sometime.”

Sherlock nods, politely, and Victor gives John a tight smile before heading back the way he came. Sherlock starts walking towards Baker Street. John follows a few steps behind, then gathers his courage and jogs to catch up.

“‘ _Flatmate_?’” he asks.

Sherlock looks at him quickly, then faces forward. “I didn’t...I didn’t mean anything by it,” he mutters.

“Is that how you’re going to refer to me, then? As your flatmate? We’re just going to keep our relationship a secret from everyone?" Sherlock purses his lips and doesn't say anything. "Victor is the only friend of yours I’ve ever met or heard of, besides myself, and you won’t tell him?”

Sherlock stops walking and faces John.

“Victor was my friend at uni. I have not spoken to him in at least ten years.”

“Don’t people usually like to catch up when they meet again after ten years? Learn about what the other person has been doing? Hear about their jobs, their family, their relationships?”

“Never took you for a gossip.”

“That’s not the point, Sherlock.”

“Then what—”

John crosses his arms. “Are you embarrassed by me? I’m not sure what other reason there could be to—”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock snarls. “Don’t be so dramatic.” He turns and is about to walk away, but John grabs him by the arm.

“It’s not just about Victor, Sherlock. You were reluctant to tell Lestrade, you refused to let Mycroft know, though he probably already did. You wouldn't even tell Mrs. Hudson for three weeks, and she suspected we were together the first day I moved in! Are you going to act this way with everyone?”

“People aren’t entitled to know my personal business.”

“Well could we maybe talk about this? How we’re going to present ourselves to other people? Because I don’t think we ever _have_ talked about it, and now you’re just making decisions for the both of us.” John looks up at the sky as he feels raindrops start to fall on his face. Sherlock scowls.

“I don’t have time for this, John.” He pulls his arm from John's grip and takes a few steps away before he realises that John is not following him. “Aren’t you coming?” he asks.

John shakes his head. “I’m staying out for a bit. I’ll be back later.” He turns and heads in the opposite direction. He tries not to look back.

\---

John walks for a few blocks, then gets sick of the rain and hops on a bus, riding until he sees a warm-looking pub that he's never visited. He sits at the bar for longer than he should. He watches parts of two different football games before he feels like people are starting to pity him.

Staring down at the dregs at the bottom of his glass, John wonders if he overreacted. He doesn’t know anything about Victor—maybe Sherlock had a good reason for keeping their relationship from him. Maybe Victor is close-minded and would have reacted poorly. Maybe he’s a terrible gossip and would have talked behind their backs to everyone he knew. John pushes away his empty glass and gets up to leave, feeling a bit ashamed of himself. The bartender must recognize the look in his eyes, because he wishes John good luck as he heads out the door.

It’s still raining outside, but the rain has slowed from the afternoon’s downpour to a calm, steady drizzle. John stands by the bus stop for five minutes before the bus arrives. He shuffles on, the hems of his trousers wet and dragging beneath his feet. He takes a sigh of relief as he walks into the dry heat of the bus.

His eyes glance around quickly, looking for an empty seat, and he does a double take when he sees Sherlock. Sherlock is slouched down by a window, texting on his phone as if he hasn't seen John. John knows that the chances of this being true are extremely slim. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, but he does know that he doesn’t need very long to make his decision. He sits down next to Sherlock without speaking. Sherlock continues texting as if he hasn’t noticed.

John estimates that they have about twenty minutes before they reach Baker Street. They drive for the first five without speaking a word to each other. The bus is moving slowly because of the rain and the traffic. The raindrops make a meditative rhythm against the tin of the bus, and city lights flicker along the street.

The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but John is still sick of it. He stares out the window, past Sherlock’s head. There’s a tension in Sherlock’s face that suggests he is hyperaware of John’s gaze.

The movement of the bus and the beers that he had at the pub are putting John to sleep. Finally giving in, he leans to the side, resting his head against Sherlock’s hair.

“I may have overreacted,” he murmurs.

Sherlock doesn't immediately respond, but then he takes a deep breath and puts his phone into his pocket, moving carefully so as not to disturb John.

"I was reluctant to tell Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade because I didn't know how long we would last. I didn't want the embarrassment of people hearing that we were together one week and then broken up a week later."

John shifts against Sherlock's side. "You thought we'd break up after a week?"

"I can be very difficult in relationships."

John lifts his head and looks at Sherlock. He is turned towards the window, watching the storefronts pass by in a colourful rain-distorted blur.

"You know I was attracted to you for a long time before we ever got together?"

"If only attraction were the only ingredient for a successful, healthy relationship."

John takes Sherlock's hand in his own and squeezes it. "We've lived together for a very long time. I've always tolerated your eccentric habits, as well as your more...dickish behaviour. There was never anything for me to be surprised about once we became official."

Sherlock is quiet for a bit. "I suppose it's an irrational fear," he says. He starts stroking John's finger with his thumb. John yawns and rests his head back on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I think you should tell Victor about us. Do you have his number? You should go out for lunch sometime while I'm at work."

"I don't, but judging by his shirt cuffs, I know which cafe he likes to spend time in."

John smiles. "Good. You should see him." He closes his eyes, though he can tell that the bus is only five minutes from their stop. "He's a good-looking bloke, Victor," he says, sleepily. "You two ever...?" Sherlock doesn't answer, and John's eyes open in mild shock. "You did?" He looks at Sherlock with amusement.

"At uni. For a short while, we were...together."

John grins. "In that case, maybe I shouldn't be encouraging you to go out with him. I should be wildly jealous."

"Please. As if Victor were any competition to—" Sherlock cuts himself off before he can finish, looking away abruptly. The bus slows down on Baker Street, and they move to get up. John squeezes Sherlock’s hand once before letting go.

"You like blondes though, huh?" John teases. "He looks a bit like me, only taller and thinner. I think you have a type."

Sherlock doesn't say anything, and John laughs at the way his cheeks have flushed pink.

\---

[[You have reached the rainy bus ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/14997564380/3-ninja-firefly-can-i-get-a-picture-of)]


	7. "Partner."

“This is John, my...partner.”

John subconsciously stands up a little straighter. Victor looks at him, a bit surprised, and shakes his hand.

“Partner?”

“In all senses of the word,” says Sherlock.

John gives Sherlock a “that was a bit too much” look, but Victor just laughs.

“You know, Sherlock and I dated for a bit in uni,” he says.

John raises his eyebrows. “Really?” he asks. “He’s never mentioned...anyone else.” He trails off, realizing that this might be a bit of a rude thing to say.

“Oh, I wouldn’t expect him to. He doesn’t talk about himself much, does he?” John looks at Sherlock. Sherlock looks away. "So what are you doing now?" Victor asks. "Working in the city, I assume?"

"I'm a detective, consulting for Scotland Yard. John's a doctor, but it's really just a formality. Most of the time, he helps me on cases."

"And blogs about it," John adds.

Victor looks impressed. "Wow, that's...great." He smiles, warmly. It makes John wonder what Sherlock was like in university. Victor is warm and friendly, and the complete opposite of Sherlock. John can't figure out what it was that brought them together; what they had in common that drew them to each other. He wonders if Sherlock's abrasive personality is a relatively recent development.

“You look good. Healthy,” says Victor. His eyes flit over Sherlock’s arm, then back up at his face. Sherlock’s jaw sets, but he doesn’t say anything. “Well I'd love to chat, but it looks like the sky’s about to open up, and I still have some shopping to do, so I should probably be off. It was nice to see you again, Sherlock. And good to meet you, John.”

John and Victor shake hands again. “Nice to meet you, too,” says John. Sherlock just nods his head, and Victor walks off in the direction he came. John nudges Sherlock and links their arms together.

“Why have you never told me about Victor?” he asks.

“No reason to. Were you expecting a full dossier on each of my former flames once we started sleeping together?”

John snorts. “Okay, no. But...have there been others?”

Sherlock is quiet for a minute, so long that John thinks he may not answer.

“No,” he says, finally.

John nods, thoughtfully. He feels distant jealousy, but knows better than to take it seriously.

\---

It starts to rain when they’re about a block away from Baker Street. The sky gets greyer and greyer until it finally opens up and raindrops patter on the pavement. Sherlock pulls an umbrella from his pocket, and John moves closer underneath to share it with him.

“Victor seemed nice,” he says, glancing up at Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “He was. Is.”

“So why’d you break up?”

“Hmm. Never took you for a gossip.”

“It’s not gossip. I just want to know more about you, since, as Victor said, you never talk about yourself.” Sherlock looks reluctant to say anything, so John continues. "You've seen my girlfriends parade in and out of the flat. And I told you about Mary and Rob in the army."

"Are you trying to guilt-trip me into telling you about Victor?"

"Well..." John looks down at his feet. "Okay, sorry. You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. But I am curious to know. I don’t know much about your life before we met."

Sherlock keeps avoiding eye contact. He slows down as they reach an alleyway, then leads John just inside, out of the way of passers-by.

“I met Victor when his dog bit me on the ankle. Victor didn’t like to tie him up, and had a bit more faith in the animal than he should have. I was studying outdoors in the grass, and the dog wanted to play. Victor was very apologetic, and came to see me a couple times the next week, to make sure I was alright. He was...very thoughtful...Kind.” Sherlock glances at John, who nods his head.

“He saw me in the library one day and sat down across from me, and we realized that I was taking a course that he had taken the previous term, so we got to chatting about the instructor, and...we became friends.”

“And then boyfriends?” John asks. Sherlock looks hesitant, so John smiles at him, encouragingly.

“And then boyfriends,” Sherlock says. He shakes his head. “It was all terribly cliché. We spent a lot of time together, became very comfortable with each other, and then one day we were studying in a cafe, and he just...took my hand over the table, like it was the most natural thing in the world.”

John toys with Sherlock’s scarf, drawing him a step closer. “This is all rather soft for you,” he says.

“I was softer back then.”

John nods, wrapped up in imagining what Sherlock would have been like at university, dating someone who seems to be the complete opposite of who he is now.

“So why did you break up?” he asks.

Sherlock breaks eye contact. “Cocaine,” he says, looking at the brick wall to his side. “We started using...together. For Victor it was just a way to pass the time. For me it was...more necessary. He said I was losing control over myself, but I claimed that it was helping me to gain control. I was wrong.” He looks down at John. “That’s why we broke up.”

John feels a deep ache for the lost, spiralling man of years past, who didn’t realize the depth of his potential and the importance of his future. He feels a sense of irrational guilt for not being there, and gives Sherlock a gentle smile. “Thank you for telling me,” he says.

Sherlock nods, and they stand together in the rain for a moment, sheltered by the umbrella.

“Are you mad with jealousy?” Sherlock asks, a grin slowly appearing on his face.

John laughs. “I may have felt a tiny bit of jealousy.” Sherlock looks amused. “But I don’t think I have anything to be worried about.”

"You certainly don't."

John feels a sudden surge of affection and wraps his arms around Sherlock, kissing him while the rain patters on the umbrella above them.

Sherlock smiles against his lips. “I think you’re trying to win me back,” he teases. “Clearly still a bit jealous.”

John kisses him again to shut him up.

\---

[[You have reached the umbrella ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10349040184/doctors-kissing-consulting-detectives-not-kissing)]


	8. Tesco has condoms, but not the right brand

_John clears his throat to get Sherlock’s attention._

Sherlock looks up. Tesco's stock of condoms looks rather ravaged. They have quite a few, but not the “warms-on-contact” kind that Sherlock and John usually buy.

"Well..." says John. "We can just get regular ones." He picks up a box of “super-thin” condoms and shows them to Sherlock.

Sherlock gives an overly dramatic grimace. "Don't be ridiculous, John. I didn't do all those experiments for nothing. We know what we like, and we will not settle for second best." He grabs the box from John's grip and shoves them back on the shelf. "We're just going to have to go elsewhere."

John laughs. "You know, we don’t have to use a condom. Unless you've been sleeping with other people without me knowing, I don't mind."

Sherlock frowns. "There is no one else, and you know that," he says. John smiles. "But I want to penetrate you later tonight, and I can tell that your pleasure is intensified with the warming sensation."

John feels certain parts of his anatomy wake up to take an interest in the conversation. He quickly thinks of something else.

With a swoop of his coat, Sherlock turns and heads toward the door. In his haste, he knocks over a display, and about ten bottles of lubricant go skidding across the floor. Being Sherlock, he doesn't stop. John stoops down to pick up the fallen bottles and rearranges them haphazardly on the display.

"You berk," he says as he catches up to Sherlock, clutching his stomach with suppressed laughter. "Did you not see all the lube you spilt on the floor?"

"Of course I saw. They have employees to clean that up. That's what they're paid for."

"You really are an arse."

The clouds have begun to disappear, leaving bright sunshine in their wake. Sherlock walks at a pace that forces John to practically jog to keep up with him.

“Where do you plan on going?” he asks.

“That chemist down the street.”

“Boots? If Boots is out of condoms, then we really are lost.”

Sherlock takes his gloves out of his pocket and starts to pull them on. John watches, and chuckles under his breath.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing. I just think I'm developing some sexual Pavlovian response to your gloves.” Sherlock huffs a laugh. “Remember the last crime scene we were at?” John asks. “You touched me on the back of my neck with your glove on.”

Sherlock smiles, nostalgically. “Mmm...I remember. You were instantly aroused.”

“You had to have known that would happen, though. After that one time when you...with the riding crop.”

“Are you saying your sexual attraction to my gloves is my fault?”

“I’m saying you knowing about my reaction to your gloves and yet insisting on wearing them in public anyway is your fault.”

They cross the street at a crosswalk, and Sherlock puts his hand out in front of him, spreading his fingers to examine his glove. “I can’t be responsible for your strange clothing kinks. And that particular day was not my fault. I was purely reacting to your hair.”

“My hair?”

“You had sex hair.”

“Well if I did, it was because of you.”

“It’s not my fault that orgasm apparently renders you incapable of using a comb.”

John notices an elderly woman look up sharply at Sherlock’s words. She seems mildly scandalized, and John bursts into giggles. Sherlock doesn’t laugh, but smiles, and keeps looking down at John as if observing his handiwork.

John takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezes it. “You don’t have to do this, you know. It doesn’t matter if we use a heated condom or not. I enjoy sex with you regardless.”

“We didn’t do all those—”

“All those experiments for nothing, yes I know, you mentioned that earlier. It wasn’t for nothing, though. Now we know what we like. But that doesn’t mean we have to maximize pleasure every single time. Sometimes it’s nice just to...be together.”

They reach the corner of the street, and Sherlock pauses.

“I like having sex with you, too,” he blurts, awkwardly.

John laughs. “Well now that’s settled,” he says. “Are we still going to Boots, or are we skipping it?”

“Mmm. Might as well, we’re almost there. But I don’t want to use a condom today. Maybe the next time.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“I like the way you feel when there’s nothing between us.” Sherlock takes a few steps forward until John is leaning up against the wall of the nearest building. John feels his face start to flush.

“It’s nice for me, too,” he says.

Sherlock rests a hand above John’s head and leans in toward him. They share a very gentle, chaste kiss that seems completely at odds with the sexuality of their conversation. They’re both smiling when they part.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Also, I have some experiments I want to run on different varieties of hair colourant...so I’d like to pick some up.”

John shakes his head, fondly. “I should have known there was an ulterior motive.”

They end up buying one box of condoms and twelve shades of brown hair colour. John thinks it’s a bit strange, but the cashier doesn’t bat an eye.

 ---

[[You have reached the kisses on street corners ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/29538598458/i-just-want-kisses-kisses-in-trench-coat-on)]


	9. "I need to go to St. Bart's."

“I need to go to St. Bart’s. Molly said she’d have some hearts for me today.”

“What about the hands? I thought the bag of hands would occupy you for at least a week.”

“They’re on ice for the moment. I’d really like to take a look at—”

“On ice? You mean in our freezer?”

“That’s usually where the ice is kept, yes.”

John gives a long-suffering sigh. Sherlock reaches down to trail his fingers over John’s ankle.

“Will you come with me?” he asks, giving John his best pleading facial expression.

As if John could deny the man anything. “Fine,” he mutters. Sherlock smiles and slides his hand up John’s leg, under his pyjama bottoms. He squeezes once, then jumps off the sofa.

“Perfect! Be ready in ten.”

 ---

When they get to the morgue, they find Lestrade there, chatting with Molly and looking rather sheepish as he sees them walk in the door. Sherlock looks at Lestrade with narrowed eyes, instantly suspicious.

"Do you have a case?" he asks. "One you didn't tell me about?"

Lestrade shrugs. "I don't tell you about every case. You only want the interesting ones. This one isn't interesting."

Sherlock still looks suspicious. He turns to Molly. "You have something for me?"

"Oh, yes. Hold on a moment." She scurries out of sight, leaving Sherlock and John with Lestrade.

"So what are you doing here?" John asks. "Aren't you usually off on Saturdays?"

"Yeah, well." Lestrade looks mildly uncomfortable. His eyes flit over to the direction in which Molly has run off, and he doesn't finish his sentence. John grins.

Sherlock has quickly become bored of the conversation, and starts opening random drawers and reading toe tags. When he starts to reach in towards a body, John clears his throat loudly. Sherlock glares at him and pulls his hand back.

"Sorry, Sherlock," Molly comes back carrying a small Styrofoam container. "I thought I’d have two for you, but the other was um...repossessed, so to speak.”

John and Lestrade raise their eyebrows, but Sherlock seems unfazed. He takes the container and peeks inside with interest.

“Perfect,” he says. “I need to use your microscope for a bit.”

“Sherlock...” John warns.

Sherlock glances at him and adds a “Please?” with forced politeness.

Molly smiles. “Sure. I could do with a coffee break, anyway...”

“You want to hit the cafe on the corner?” Lestrade asks.

Molly looks at him and nods, looking pleased. “Yeah, that sounds great, actually.” She takes off her lab coat and pulls on a jacket. “Please don’t touch the other bodies, Sherlock. I don’t want what happened last time to happen...again.”

Lestrade puts a hand on Molly's back as he leads her out the door. She smiles at him warmly, with barely a hint of her usual timidness.

Sherlock brings the heart over to the nearest microscope and removes his coat, settling in for what seems like it will be a while. John wonders how he's going to occupy himself.

"Is there something...I can do?" he asks. Sherlock looks at him as if John has just asked the stupidest question in history. John sighs and pulls out his phone to check his email.

 ---

Sherlock has been fussing with the heart under Molly's microscope for fifteen minutes when John begins to lose his patience.

"You could have told me to bring a book or something," he complains. "You didn't mention that this would be so boring."

"It's not boring."

"Boring for me."

Sherlock switches slides and drops a bit of heart into a beaker of liquid. "If you'd just read e-books like the rest of the modern world, you could have some on your phone and you'd be sufficiently occupied."

John looks back at Sherlock to find that he's frowning at the label on a bottle of some unrecognizable chemical.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

Sherlock looks up at him, still frowning. "This may or may not explode," he says.

"Sherlock, don't make a mess of Molly's workspace." Sherlock doesn’t listen, adjusting his goggles and holding the open bottle above the beaker. John steps towards him and uses his most commanding military voice. “Sherlock, put that down now!”

 

\---

[[Sherlock listens to John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095607) - chapter 10]

[[Sherlock doesn't listen to John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095634) - chapter 11]


	10. Sherlock listens

_“Sherlock, put that down now!”_

Sherlock pauses and puts down the bottle. He calmly caps the chemicals, takes off his goggles, and peels off his gloves. John gives an exasperated sigh of relief as Sherlock steps away from the table.

“John?” Sherlock asks. “Order me to do something else."

“What?”

“Please?” Sherlock’s eyes glance at the door quickly. Apparently seeing no sign of Molly or Lestrade returning, he looks back at John with a mischievous smile. “Please, sir?”

“Oh, god. Sherlock...”

Sherlock grins and takes John’s hand, pulling him into a corner of the room that would be relatively hidden if someone were to walk in. John finds it only slightly comforting, but he still feels his cock stir when Sherlock looks him up and down with hungry eyes.

“Molly and Lestrade will be coming back soon," he says.

“Molly has a half-hour break, and they've only been gone for fifteen minutes, so that should give us a good fifteen left. And I know for a fact, due to extensive experimentation that I'm sure you remember, that you can bring me to climax in under five."

“Sherlock, I am not having a quickie in a morgue.”

“Oh, and that time in the men’s bathroom at the Yard was fine by you?”

“There weren’t dead bodies hanging about at the Yard!”

“There were at the crime scene last month when we—”

“Sherlock—”

“If you’re concerned about timing, then maybe only one of us needs to get off, and the other can just wait—”

“Sherlock!”

“Yes, Captain?”

John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, he has subconsciously straightened his posture. Sherlock is looking at him with anticipation.

“Get on your knees.”

Sherlock slides to his knees with more grace than a man with his gangly limbs should be capable of. He tilts his face up at John, his pupils visibly expanding. John licks his lips and runs a hand through Sherlock’s hair, pulling just a bit to tilt his face further up. Sherlock shivers.

“You don’t ever listen to me, do you?”

“I apologize.”

“What was that?”

“I apologize, Captain.”

There is a brief moment of silence, then John giggles in a very un-captainlike manner.

"I'm so sorry, but I don't know if I can do this."

Sherlock gives a frustrated sigh. "Try," he says. He shifts a bit, sneaking one hand to rub over his crotch. John watches Sherlock's Adam’s apple bob as he gives a loud click of a swallow. He decides to try harder.

“You know disciplinary action has to be taken on subordinates who will not follow orders.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Sherlock has a mischievous glint in his eyes. He looks down at the growing tent in John’s trousers. “If there’s anything I can do for you...” When he looks back up at John from under heavy eyelids, John licks his lips.

“Unzip my trousers.”

Sherlock’s hands are eager on John’s flies. John looks over his shoulder once, just to confirm what he already knows: that the room is empty. His attention quickly returns to the matter at hand when he feels Sherlock tug his trousers open just enough, and mouth at the fabric of his pants. His knees tremble, and Sherlock’s hand tightens on John’s thigh to keep him upright.

“God, Sherlock.”

He can feel Sherlock smiling against his erection, and it’s somehow making him more aroused. He puts one hand over Sherlock’s where it clutches his thigh. The other he slides into Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock’s eyes close, and he moves to nose at the trail of hair just over the waistline of John’s pants.

“You’re supposed to be ordering me,” Sherlock murmurs. His voice is so low that it takes John a moment to decipher his words.

“Um...sorry, I...distracted.”

Sherlock raises his hands and slides his thumbs into the hem of John’s pants, stroking over the crease where his legs meet his torso. John tries to ignore the fact that his legs are starting to tremble.

“I’m waiting,” says Sherlock.

“Fuck, I want you to suck me.”

“Is that an order?”

“That’s an order. Put your mouth on me now.”

Sherlock hums with contentment. He pulls John’s trousers and pants down to mid-thigh, then grips John in one hand and licks a stripe up the underside of his cock. John’s knees buckle just a bit, and he clutches the nearest table. Sherlock is huffing a laugh over his skin, and John’s not sure he’s ever felt anything so divine.

“For Christ’s sake, get on with it,” he mutters.

“Yes sir.” Sherlock looks up and makes eye contact as he slides John’s cock into his mouth. John makes a small, broken sound. It causes Sherlock’s eyelids to flutter.

When Sherlock gives head, it’s as if there’s nothing else in the world that he would rather be doing. John is astonished at his focus and dedication in this, when there are other tasks that perhaps deserve the attention more. Right now, however, John can’t be arsed to care.

The warmth of Sherlock’s mouth is almost overwhelming in its intensity. He slides up and down over and over, then hollows his cheeks, and suddenly John can’t think straight. His knuckles are white where they cling to the table. He wants to put one hand on Sherlock’s head, but he’s sure that if he lets go of the table, the room will spin. Sherlock makes a satisfied noise in the back of his throat, and then hums. John can feel him vibrating.

“Sherlock,” he murmurs. Sherlock looks up at him, his eyelids heavy. John closes his eyes, because he knows that if he maintains eye contact, he will come too soon.

Sherlock pulls off and strokes John’s cock with one hand while he alternates between kissing and biting the insides of John’s thighs. He likes marking John, and John likes being marked. There is still a fading bruise on his left thigh from earlier in the week. Sherlock kisses it with reverence, then takes John back into his mouth.

John gives a short, soft cry and lets go of the table to tangle one hand in Sherlock’s hair. He moves his hips gently back and forth, ready to back away if Sherlock shows any signs of discomfort. Sherlock drops one hand from where it is gripping John’s hip and starts to rub himself through his own trousers. John can’t look away. He can’t even see the rest of the room. He’s pretty sure the rest of the world has fallen away.

Sherlock pulls just far enough back to keep the head of John’s cock in his mouth. His attention shifts for a moment while he opens his trousers. The sight of Sherlock pleasuring himself is a bit too much for John to bear. He takes a tiny gasp and moves his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. Sherlock looks up at him, expectantly, and John uses his free hand to bring himself off into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock closes his eyes, one hand still working on his cock.

John’s mind still feels fuzzy, but he hears something that makes his ears perk up.

“Fuck, Sherlock, they’re coming back!”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and they both rush to refasten their trousers as they hear voices and footsteps approaching the door. John tries his best to finger-comb Sherlock’s hair back into place as the door opens.

“Any success, Sherlock?” Molly asks, looking rosy-cheeked and happy.

Sherlock is the picture of casual poise. He stands up from the stool by the microscope, still facing the table, and pulls his coat on.

“Yes, thank you. I have some more tests to run at home.”

Lestrade looks at John. “You alright, mate? You look a bit...red.”

John puts a hand to his cheek, which feels warmer than it should. “I’m fine, just a little hot, is all.”

“Hot? In a morgue? You coming down with something?”

John makes eye contact with Sherlock briefly. “Might be,” he says. “Lots of sick people at the clinic.” Sherlock snorts, and John shoves him in retaliation. Lestrade doesn’t seem to catch on to anything, but Molly is looking a bit suspicious.

“We’ll be going then,” says Sherlock. He picks up his box and heads for the door. John mutters a goodbye as he slips out after him.

As they walk down the hallway, John notices that Sherlock keeps biting at his lips.

“So...what was that you said earlier?” he asks. “About timing...”

Sherlock’s jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Was it ‘one of us can get off and the other can wait?’ I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”

“John—”

“Oh, were you thinking that you would get off and I would be the one to wait? Because—”

“John!”

John grins up at him. “We don’t have to go home right away, do we? I’m famished, I think we should stop somewhere for lunch.”

“Somewhere with a loo that will fit two people?”

“Mmm...not what I was thinking, but that actually doesn’t sound too bad.”

They make it to the end of the next hallway. John isn’t surprised to find that Sherlock has memorized the passcode to the staff storage closet.

\---

[[You have reached the military kink ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/17042576869/following-up-on-sherlocks-military-kink-this-is)]


	11. Sherlock doesn't listen

_“Sherlock, put that down now!”_

Sherlock ignores John’s command, and tips a splash of liquid into the beaker before capping it quickly. It starts bubbling and foaming, then Sherlock’s eyes widen and he scrambles to stand up.

“Vatican cam—” He’s too late. The liquid expands too fast, and the beaker explodes, sending shards of glass flying.

“Fuck!” John feels a piece strike him on the forehead, and then there’s the hot, wet feeling of blood. Sherlock looks at him, and his eyes widen.

“I apologize, I didn’t—” he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and tries to staunch the flow of blood.

“Ouch! That fucking hurts, let me do it.” John grabs the handkerchief roughly from Sherlock, scowling at him. He goes over to a nearby mirror to survey the damage. “Great. It’ll need a few stitches.”

Sherlock is staring disappointedly at the broken beaker. He dips his shoe into a bit of spilled chemical and smears it across the floor.

“I can see you’re real concerned,” says John, watching him in the mirror while he dabs at his forehead.

Sherlock looks up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You did say you’d do it yourself.”

“I didn’t—” John sighs. “That didn’t mean I wanted you to ignore me in favour of your chemicals. Get over here.”

Sherlock stands behind John, looking at the reflection of his forehead in the mirror. It has all but stopped bleeding now, though John continues to dab at it.

“Can you stitch me up?” John asks. Sherlock nods.

He doesn’t have to go far to pilfer the necessary supplies. He’s out the door for only three minutes before he comes back in carrying a needle, needle holders, a syringe of lidocaine, and thread. John has taken off his shirt to find that his vest is stained at the top with a few drops of blood. Sherlock touches the stain, a tiny crease in his forehead.

“Don’t worry about it,” John says. “I can get another.” Sherlock looks at him, and John knows that it’s not the vest that Sherlock is concerned about.

John pulls a nearby stool under a large lamp and sits down, squinting a bit under the light. They are both quiet as Sherlock cleans the wound. They can hear footsteps going up and down the hallway, and the lift makes a dinging sound every time the doors open and close. In the morgue, it feels much too still. John can feel Sherlock’s breath across his face. Sherlock doesn’t warn him when he pierces John’s skin to inject the lidocaine, and John winces from the discomfort, but doesn’t make any noise.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers. He readies the needle and thread and begins stitching.

“I wish you’d listen to me more often,” John says. “You don’t like it when other people tell you what to do, and strangely enough, I do love that about you, but it can also be incredibly frustrating. Not everyone who asks you to do something is trying to keep you from having fun.”

“I wasn’t having fun. I was researching.”

“Well they aren’t trying to keep you from researching, either.” Sherlock pulls through the last stitch and begins tying off the thread. “Do you trust me?” John asks.

Sherlock looks offended. “With my life. That’s a ridiculous question.” He pats at the stitches gently with an iodine-soaked cotton swab.

“Maybe. I just like to hear you say it sometimes.”

“My not listening to you has nothing to do with trust.” Sherlock tosses out the cotton swab and John gets off his stool to lean into the mirror and examine Sherlock’s handiwork. “It's just my...headstrong personality.”

John smiles. “And like I said, I do love that about you. Just try to take other people’s advice into consideration once and awhile.” He watches as Sherlock disposes of the needle in the hazardous-materials waste bin. “You know...you also have quite a talent for stitching. Ever think of going into fashion design?”

“Very funny.”

“Posh thing like you, dresses nice, you could make a fortune designing menswear.” Sherlock is wearing the purple shirt that John considers a personal favourite. He gives Sherlock a deliberate once-over, and is pleased when Sherlock begins to flush pink. They hear Molly’s laugh coming from down the hallway. As her footsteps approach the door, John slips a hand onto Sherlock’s arse and slides it all the way up his spine, over his nape, and into his hair.

Sherlock shivers, and his lips twitch upward briefly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“Who says I can’t keep them?”

The door opens, and Molly and Lestrade come back into the room, smiling and smelling like coffee. Sherlock gets his hair back into place with a one-handed ruffle and goes to sit back down at the microscope before seeing the broken glass and chemicals that are still spilt on the floor.

“What...happened?” Molly asks when she notices.

Sherlock at least tries to act guilty. “I’ll clean up,” he says.

Molly just sighs. John gives her a reassuring smile.

“He’s very good at cleaning up after himself,” he says. “I’ve been giving him practice.”

Lestrade’s jaw drops when he sees John’s forehead. “What the hell happened to your face, mate?”

John and Sherlock just look at each other, and giggle.

\---

[[You have reached the suture ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/9580439441/image-googling-how-to-suture-a-wound-and-watchin)]


	12. Sherlock is about to speak when his phone rings

Sherlock is just opening his mouth to answer when his phone rings. He reaches into the sofa cushion and pulls it out. John watches with mild interest as Sherlock answers his phone without looking at the screen.

"Hello?"

\---

[[It's Mrs. Hudson](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095664) - chapter 13]

[[It's Mycroft](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095712) - chapter 14]

[[It's Lestrade](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095737) - chapter 15]


	13. It's Mrs. Hudson

_"Hello?"_

“Oh, good morning Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock glances over at John quickly. “Yes, he’s here.”

John looks around the room and sees his phone on the sitting room table. He tries to turn it on, but the battery is dead.

“Yes, I’ll let him know. He’ll be down in a moment.” Sherlock hangs up. “Mrs. Hudson dropped a ring down the drain of her kitchen sink. She wants to know if you’d help her retrieve it.”

“Me?’

“Well _I’m_ certainly not getting on my knees to unscrew a filthy pipe.”

John blinks. “I...am not going to remark on that.” Sherlock’s wide-eyed innocent expression turns into a devious grin.

“Besides,” Sherlock says. “Between the two of us, you’re the one more adept at this sort of thing.”

John rolls his eyes and plugs his phone in to charge before heading downstairs.

\---

“Morning Mrs. H.” John creaks open Mrs. Hudson’s door and peeks inside.

“In the kitchen, dear!”

Mrs. Hudson’s flat is warm and comfortable. There is an excessive number of afghans draped over the furniture, and layers of oriental rugs on the floors. Mrs. Hudson claims that they keep the flat warm in the winter. John is inclined to agree. He didn’t put shoes on before going downstairs, and his feet are cold from the staircase.

He peers into the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson looking into the sink with a frown.

“What’s up?” he asks.

“Oh...I was taking off a ring before doing the dishes and it just...fell down the drain. I tried to get it out with a magnet, but...” She holds up a tiny refrigerator magnet tied to a piece of yarn. “It didn’t work. I think you’ll have to take apart the pipe.”

“Do you have a wrench?” John asks.

She nods and passes it to him, and John crawls half into the cupboard below the sink to get at the pipe.

“I would do it myself,” says Mrs. Hudson, guiltily, as he works. “But it’s winter, and...well the cold weather is just terrible to my joints.”

After a bit of a struggle, John gives a sharp tug, and the pipe comes free with a creak. When he tips it to the side and shakes, the ring easily falls out of the pipe and into his palm. He hands it to Mrs. Hudson.

“Might want to clean that,” he says.

She smiles at him. “Thank you, dear. I’ll just...rinse this off in the bathroom.” She scurries away.

John stretches his arms above his head, trying to get a crick out of his back. He feels, rather than hears Sherlock’s approach behind him.

“Find it?” Sherlock asks.

John turns around and sees Sherlock leaning against the doorframe, nonchalantly. He nods.

“Yeah.” He leans back under the sink to replace the pipe. He hears Sherlock’s footsteps getting closer behind him, then there is the scrape of a chair. John pulls back and hits his head on something sharp and metal. He curses under his breath, then turns around. Sherlock has pulled a chair forward and is watching him.

“What...are you doing?” John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. “Bored.”

John sighs and leans back under the sink. He is trying to hold the pipe in place while getting the fittings back on when he hears Sherlock speak again.

“Are you wearing pants?”

John drops the pipe.

“What the hell—”

“It’s just that I have a rather good view right now, and I can’t see a waistband.”

John pulls his head back out, careful this time not to hit himself.

“Yes, I am wearing pants. And Mrs. Hudson is just down the hall, so stop flirting.” He tries to pull his jeans up a bit, but it’s almost impossible while he’s kneeling on the ground. He gives Sherlock a half-hearted glare, made a bit less heated by the fact that his face is flushing. Sherlock makes no sign that he has noticed, but John knows that he has.

John starts fiddling with the pipe again, this time distracted by the fact that Sherlock is probably still staring at his arse. He is just tightening the last bolt when he feels fingers slide into his trousers. He jumps and hits his head on the underside of the sink.

“Fuck!” He crawls out so quickly that Sherlock is forced to take a few steps back. “What on Earth are you doing?” John sputters.

“I...collecting evidence?”

John glances past Sherlock at the bathroom door down the hallway. “Can’t you wait to ‘collect evidence’ when we’re back upstairs?”

Sherlock frowns. “John, I think you’re misinterpreting. I’m not using ‘collecting evidence’ as some sort of sexual innuendo. ...I really can’t even see the seam of your pants. Are you sure you’re wearing some?”

John just stares at Sherlock, and Sherlock stares back. There is complete silence until Mrs. Hudson comes back into the room.

“It’s all cleaned and looks like new, now. Is the pipe back in place?” She smiles at Sherlock quickly, not at all surprised to see that he has appeared in her kitchen.

John nods and stands up. “Yes, it should be all set now.” He leans down to close the cupboard doors, and when he looks back up, he catches Sherlock’s eyes flickering up from where they were resting on his arse. John narrows his eyes.

“Perfect, thank you so much, dear.”

John hands her the wrench and washes his hands in the sink before he heads back upstairs. He makes sure that Sherlock walks in front of him.

\---

[[You have reached the plumber ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/9854787713/oh-my-morbidinterest-if-youre-still-taking)]


	14. It's Mycroft

_"Hello?"_

The look that comes over Sherlock's face makes it clear immediately who is on the other line. With a scowl like that, it couldn't be anyone other than Mycroft. John smirks and stands up, bringing their empty mugs into the kitchen as Sherlock speaks.

"What makes you think I'll agree to that? ....What do you mean I owe you, you haven't— ...Oh, shut up."

John shakes his head and laughs to himself. He removes a bagged cat carcass from the sink before washing the dishes.

"Fine. ...I said FINE." Sherlock hangs up with a huff and tosses his phone angrily to the other side of the sofa. He's done this so many times, John's surprised the phone is still in one piece.

"Mycroft asking a favour?" John asks. Sherlock stomps into the kitchen and angrily flings open the refrigerator.

"We're going to Scotland," he says. He pulls out a box of slides and lays them on the table next to his microscope.

"What for?" John asks.

"I don't know, something dull and pointless involving assassination."

John raises an eyebrow. "Assassination is dull and pointless?”

“It is when Mycroft wants us to look into it.”

John is rather pleased by Sherlock’s use of the word ‘us.’ “Alright..." he says, hesitantly. "But need I remind you that I have a job, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorts. "Barely. Besides, it's just locum work. They can spare you for a few days."

"A few days?"

Sherlock smirks. "If that." He sets up his microscope and sits comfortably in his chair.

"So when do we leave?"

"This afternoon. I recommend you start packing an overnight bag."

 ---

The plan is to take the train to meet Mycroft in Scotland. Mycroft has arranged for their tickets, and even sends a car to pick them up and bring them to the train station. It arrives much too early, so Sherlock asks to stop for coffee first. He doesn’t want to leave the warmth of the car, so he asks John to go in for him.

“You are the laziest arse I know,” John says. It’s the only complaint he gives. He goes into the cafe without further argument and orders what he knows Sherlock wants without having to ask.

 ---

There are a decent number of people on the train, but not as many as there would be had they left later in the month, closer to the holiday. Sherlock manages to find an empty compartment, and they claim it by leaving their bags on the seats and taking up as much space as possible.

The train sits at the station for fifteen minutes before taking off. John stares out the window, watching buildings and people and trees whizz by. He hasn’t been in a train since uni, when he went on holiday with some mates. He had forgotten the soothing rhythm trains make as they move. The sound of it is comfortable, and almost puts him to sleep.

In an effort to make the trip productive, John decides to work on his blog. The train offers free wifi, so he pulls out his laptop and starts editing a draft. Sherlock slouches down on the seat across from him and fiddles with his phone. They are silent for the better part of the next hour, except for a couple of questions John asks to clear up details about their last case. Finally, he sighs and turns off his laptop. He looks up to find Sherlock gazing out the window with a glazed, sleepy expression. He nudges Sherlock's leg with his foot.

“I’m going to get a bite to eat,” he says. “D’you want anything?”

Sherlock shakes his head, and John closes the doors of the compartment on his way out.

\---

When John comes back, Sherlock is asleep. He is slouched down on his seat, feet propped up on John’s side of the compartment, head resting against the wall. John pauses for a bit, watching him, then takes off his jacket and drapes it over Sherlock like a blanket. He picks up his laptop again and starts browsing the internet while eating his overpriced sandwich.

Sherlock wakes up when John shoves the sandwich wrapper into his bag. It’s only a matter of minutes before his energy is back to 100%. He starts out by fidgeting, then progresses to loud sighing, and finally starts ripping up pieces of a map and throwing them at John’s laptop. John looks up, irritated.

"What is it?"

"Bored!"

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"I don't know. Kill a man. Hijack the train. Poison the conductor. Do something! My brain is atrophying."

“Didn’t you bring your laptop? Why don’t you go online?”

“It’s all the way in my bag.” Sherlock points to his bag, which he has moved to the rack above his head. He looks at John, expectantly.

“Oh no. No, I am not getting it out for you,” John says. “You want to prevent brain atrophy, you can get it yourself.”

Sherlock tries pouting, but it doesn’t work this time. Finally, his boredom outweighs his laziness, and he stands up to retrieve his laptop. John glances up at him, then does a double-take. Something about Sherlock stretching overhead is really more attractive than it should be. He looks back down at his laptop, determined to focus.

They sit in internet-addicted silence for all of ten minutes before Sherlock speaks.

“Do you have any idea how many videos there are of men wanking on trains?”

John purses his lips and looks at Sherlock incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“I just searched for it because I was curious, and there really are a disproportionate number. Why trains, do you think?” John doesn’t answer. “They’re an industrial revolution invention. It might have something to do with the idea of the sexually repressed Victorian.”

“Sherlock, are you watching porn right now?”

“Yes, John.”

“Why?”

“Research?”

“For what?”

“I did tell you I was looking for ways to pass the time.”

It takes John’s brain a couple of seconds before he catches Sherlock’s meaning. He glances at the door of the compartment, which is half glass. There are heavy curtains to either side, and he looks back at Sherlock, waiting for him to make the first move.

“Close the curtains,” Sherlock husks.

John gets up and does as he’s told. When he turns around, Sherlock has closed his laptop and is looking at him with heat in his eyes.

“I think part of it is the possibility of getting caught,” John says. He licks his lips. “Makes it feel dangerous.”

“And you like dangerous.”

“I do, yes.”

“Sit down and watch me.”

John sits back down across from Sherlock, his legs parted to keep himself comfortable in his tightening trousers. Sherlock notices this, and smirks. He unbuttons his shirt, then runs a hand over his chest, keeping eye contact with John as he rubs at one nipple with his middle finger. John swallows hard in anticipation. Sherlock opens his legs and slides down a bit in his seat.

“Do you want to see me pleasure myself?” he asks, his voice even lower than usual.

“God, yes.”

“I suppose I’ll have to get it out of my system before I start the case.”

John groans. “Any chance we can revisit the ‘no sex during a case’ rule?”

Sherlock slips a hand over the tent in his trousers and gives himself a brief squeeze. “I’ll think about it,” he says. He tips his head back until his throat is stretched out the way that John likes, then he closes his eyes and starts stroking himself over his clothes. John can hear his own breath getting ragged, and he shifts, slightly.

“These doors don’t lock you know,” Sherlock murmurs. “Anyone could walk in at any point.”

“I know.”

“And what would they see? Me with my shirt undone and both of us hard as rock in our trousers?”

“Guess we’ll deal with that if it happens.”

Sherlock smiles. He lifts his head and looks back at John, whose hands are resting high up on his thighs as if he’s struggling to come to a decision. John isn’t sure where he wants to look. His eyes flit from Sherlock’s face, to his chest, to his erection. His eyes widen slightly as Sherlock unbuttons his trousers and pulls himself out.

It suddenly feels warmer in the train. John’s lips part to allow for his quickening breaths. He wants to take off his jumper, but can’t seem to pull his eyes from Sherlock’s body. Sherlock lets his shirt fall off of his shoulders, then unbuttons his cuffs one by one. John is entranced by the motions of his fingers.

“You like my hands,” Sherlock says, amused. He splays one out on his thigh and strokes himself slowly and luxuriously with the other.

“Not much of a deduction. I’m sure I’ve told you that before.” John is surprised at how raspy his voice has become. He sounds desperate. Sherlock looks down at John’s crotch and nods his head, a silent signal. When John finally rubs himself over his trousers, he lets out a loan moan of relief.

John is about to undo his belt when something outside the window catches Sherlock’s eye. John looks out, but sees only the grassy fields that they’ve been moving through for the better part of the hour. He is about to ask Sherlock what he sees when they are engulfed in darkness.

The moment they enter the tunnel, Sherlock springs up from his seat and presses John backwards, settling himself on John’s lap. It takes a moment for John to catch up to what’s happening, but then Sherlock pulls off his jumper and starts kissing him, and he can feel the heaviness of Sherlock’s cock against his stomach, and sincerely hopes that this tunnel goes on forever.

Sherlock is rapidly unbuttoning John’s shirt while their mouths crash together. John runs his hands up and down Sherlock’s sides. When Sherlock moves to kiss John’s neck, John opens his eyes, and can see the window growing gradually lighter. The pattern of the brick is visible where it wasn’t before, and John inwardly curses.

Sherlock kisses his mouth again, and doesn’t stop even when they get out of the tunnel. He is more fond of kissing than anyone John’s ever been with, and it’s a good thing, because he’s damn skilled at it. They lose themselves in a few long minutes of snogging, then Sherlock slips a hand between them and touches John’s cock where it presses up against the fabric of his trousers. Their lips part with John’s sudden gasp.

“What do you want?” he asks, running one hand in circles over the small of Sherlock’s back. “I’ll give you anything. Absolutely anything.”

Sherlock smiles against his lips. “I’ve been inspired,” he says. “Kneel on the floor and lean over the seat.” He stands up to let John move. “Did you bring any lube?”

John laughs and presses his forehead to the seat cushion. “Are you asking me if I packed lubricant to bring on an assignment from your brother? Even though I know that you refuse to have sex while on a case, and even though you told me it would only be ‘a few days?’”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking you.”

“Well...thank god for wishful thinking, because I did. It’s in the side pocket of my bag.” Sherlock retrieves the bottle and pulls John’s trousers down before squeezing a bit into his palm. John closes his eyes and listens to the sound of Sherlock rubbing his hands together to warm the lube between his palms. He waits in anticipation of the stretch of Sherlock’s fingers, but it doesn’t come.

“Press your legs together,” Sherlock says. He slides a slick hand between John’s thighs, coating the sensitive skin with lubricant. John whimpers when Sherlock brushes over his perineum.

Too soon, Sherlock’s hand slips away, and he squeezes out more lube before John hears the bottle cap close. Sherlock presses a kiss to John’s spine, then he leans forward, and his cock slides between John’s thighs. He lets out a small gasp, and John squeezes his legs together to hear it again.

Sherlock may have used too much lube. It slides down John’s skin, dripping onto his trousers where they lay bunched around his knees. It makes obscene slurping noises as Sherlock thrusts back and forth. John finds that he can’t breathe through his arousal. When Sherlock wraps an arm around him to jerk him off with his still-slippery hand, John moans loudly enough that the people in the next compartment are probably getting suspicious.

Sherlock is whispering something against John’s back, but it sounds like nonsense. John thinks he hears his name, and a string of numbers, and something in Latin, but he can’t be sure. Sherlock thumbs over the head of his cock, and then his brain stops interpreting anything other than pure pleasure.

John starts moving back to meet Sherlock’s thrusts, and he can tell by the way Sherlock’s arm is tensing that he’s about to come. He tries to bite back the sounds that are being torn from his throat, but he can tell that Sherlock is enjoying them, because every time he makes a noise, Sherlock thrusts harder. When John lets out a muffled sob, Sherlock’s whole body tenses, and John feels him pulse. Sherlock presses wet, open-mouthed kisses to John’s back as he orgasms.

Sherlock isn’t still for longer than three seconds before he pulls away and spins John around, stroking him hard and fast until John’s back arches against the seat of the train, and his mouth falls open without letting out a sound. The world around him becomes a distant haze. He is dimly aware of his legs being hopelessly tangled in his trousers, but he can’t find the will to care.

When John’s brain comes back online, Sherlock is looking at him, smugly. John laughs.

“What...on earth was that?” he asks with a smile. “That may have been the hottest sex I’ve ever had.”

Sherlock smirks. “Oh, I’m sure we can top that.” He pats John on the knee before sitting up and wiping himself clean with a tissue he pulls from a travel pack in his pocket. He hands two to John. “There’s a city approaching soon. You may want to pull your trousers up. You like danger, but actual exhibitionism is a bit much for you.” John shakes his head and finds that he can’t stop smiling.

\---

When they reach Scotland, Mycroft is waiting for them on the train platform. He gives them one look and frowns at Sherlock with distaste.

“Seriously, now. On the train?”

Sherlock just shrugs. John turns beet-red.

 ---

[[You have reached the train trip ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/11606483048/this-wasnt-going-to-be-bromantic-but-then-it)]


	15. It's Lestrade

_"Hello?"_

Sherlock's eyes light up, and John knows immediately that it's Lestrade.

“What do you have?” Sherlock asks. He’s silent for a moment, listening, his face going through a variety of facial expressions. “What? And you’ve lost him?” He looks over at John, who stands up to get their coats. “Yes, most definitely,” he says. “We’re leaving now.” He hangs up and catches his coat when John tosses it to him.

“What’s up?”

“The woman with the ring—the one found in the blue toy car—she’s been found dead in her flat. Gunshot wound."

“What? Why?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out.”

\---

John had considered the case too boring to blog about. It wasn’t even a proper case, to be honest. It began when Sherlock was contacted by Peter, a teenage boy from the homeless network. One of the local shelters was running a toy drive for the holidays, and had received a large collection of fancy toy cars. While sorting through the toys and wrapping them up for the children, someone discovered an expensive antique ring hidden inside of one.

Unfortunately, there was no record of who had donated the cars, so they had thought that they wouldn’t be able to return it. That was, until Peter nicked the ring and brought it to Sherlock. Sherlock had found its owner within the day, and the ring was returned.

Things should have gone back to normal. Now, according to Lestrade, the owner of the ring has been murdered.

 ---

Lestrade meets them on the street outside the victim’s flat. He’s just finishing off a cup of coffee, and crumples it in his hand as they get out of the cab. He gives them a weary head-nod by way of greeting.

“I don’t know if it’s higher than a seven,” he says, wryly. “But I remember John mentioning the thing with the car, so...thought I’d give you a ring, in case it’s related.”

Sherlock stalks over to the front door. “Of course it’s related. Where’s the body?” he asks.

“Bedroom. Up the stairs, to your right.”

Maggie Oatshott is lying on the floor of her bedroom with a gunshot wound to her chest. Lestrade has already cleared the room of other people, and watches by the doorway as Sherlock and John stand over her. John feels a wave of déjà vu. It brings back memories of their first case together, with the woman in pink. He takes out his notebook and watches Sherlock hover over the body.

Sherlock looks at her hands, putting on latex gloves before picking one up to study her fingertips. He pulls her hair aside to examine her neck and finds bruising over her shoulders. He sits back on his heels for a few minutes and just stares at her.

“Anything?” Lestrade asks. Sherlock looks up and glares at him, and Lestrade sighs. “Let me know if he moves,” he mutters to John. He heads back down the stairs to speak to someone on forensics.

John walks over to Sherlock and kneels down next to him.

“What have you got?” he asks, gently.

Sherlock’s eyes flick over to him quickly, then back toward the body.

“She’s a single mother. Divorced, judging by the faded marks on her ring finger. She has just started dating again now that her teenage son has gone off to school. The cars were his, as evidenced by the theme of the mural in his bedroom. He’s outgrown the toys now, so she decided to donate them to the shelter. The ring was an heirloom, passed down through generations of her family. At least four generations, I’d say, judging by what I can remember of the style and material.” He pulls her shirt collar down a bit, showing John a faint line on the woman’s skin. “She used to wear it around her neck daily.”

“Good,” murmurs John. “That's fantastic.” Sherlock takes his hand and squeezes it, then stands up and walks around the room.

“I believe it was her current boyfriend,” Sherlock says. He picks up a photo from where it is wedged in the mirror over the woman’s dresser. “He’s not trustworthy. Look at his body language in this picture.”

John studies the photo and immediately doesn’t like the man, but can’t describe why.

“It’s the bags under his eyes, the frown lines, the way he holds onto her shoulder possessively. He probably stole the ring while she slept. He knew she would immediately start looking for it the next morning, so he hid it in the toy car, knowing that she would never look for it there. He didn’t get a chance to retrieve it, and she ended up donating the cars, one of which still had the ring inside of it.”

John stretches up to kiss Sherlock on the cheek as he passes back the photo.

“You. Are. Amazing,” he says.

“John, please, we’re in the middle of a crime scene.” Sherlock puts the photo in his pocket and turns away abruptly.

John grins. “So what now?” he asks.

 ---

[["Well, the killer's gone."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095755) - chapter 16]

[["Well, the killer's still here."](http://archiveofourown.org/works/607893/chapters/1095814) - chapter 17]


	16. "Well, the killer's gone."

_John grins. “So what now?” he asks._

“Well the killer’s gone. I’ll give the photo to Lestrade. If we find her mobile, surely we can get a name, phone number, and address for the boyfriend. Really, it’s just a matter of tracking him down, which even Scotland Yard should be able to handle.

John nods. “Alright.”

They head down the stairs, where Lestrade is waiting. Sherlock explains what he’s gathered from the crime scene, and hands Lestrade the picture.

“We’ve got her phone,” Lestrade says. “Thankfully, she set a photo for each contact, so we can match that up with this picture here and get his phone number." He scrolls through the contact list quickly, pausing on one entry. "Here," he says. "James Ryder." He tilts the screen of the phone towards Sherlock and John.

"That's him all right," says John. "Did she put an address in there?"

Lestrade looks down at the phone, tapping through the menu, and finds the address, grinning with triumph.

"Well this just got boring," says Sherlock. "Let me know if you have any trouble tracking him down. I'm actually not sure which would be more surprising: if you do or if you don't."

Lestrade frowns at him and waves them out the door.

“Were you trying to get more practice in being rude?” John asks, following Sherlock out and down the front steps. “I’m not sure you have much experience, you may want some more.”

“Oh, and sarcasm is the height of civil conversation.”

“Well you don’t have to be a total berk to Lestrade. He thought you’d be interested. And he was right—it was connected to the ring Peter found.”

Sherlock hums an affirmative reply, and John slips an arm through Sherlock’s to link their elbows.

“Maybe Lestrade just underestimated again how fantastic you are,” he says.

Sherlock looks down at him in mild confusion. “Just a moment ago you were complaining about my rude behaviour, now you’re flirting with me?”

“I’m trying, but you’re making it a little hard.”

“Well maybe you should try harder. You’ve used ‘fantastic’ already today.”

John snorts. “You’re full of yourself, you do know that, right?”

They reach the main street, and Sherlock hails a cab. It’s only a matter of time before they’re back at the flat, and Sherlock is bored again.

\---

[[You have reached the crime scene ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10030676905/meanwhile-ihsotas-umm-if-your-still-taking)]


	17. "Well, the killer's still here."

_John grins. “So what now?” he asks._

“Well, the killer’s still here.”

John isn’t sure he heard Sherlock correctly. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you heard me perfectly. He’s not in the flat, but he’s nearby. And he’s planning on coming back as soon as the coast is clear.”

“How do you know that?”

Sherlock bends down and reaches under the bed, pulling out a photo ID. “He’ll want to come back for this,” he says. “He’ll need it to get into the office tomorrow, and it’s slightly incriminating.”

John takes the ID. It labels the boyfriend as “James Ryder,” an employee in the marketing department of a local software company.

“So...we’re going to show this to Lestrade?” John asks. “And tell him what you’ve deduced?"

Sherlock snorts. “Well at least you’ve got half of it right.”

They head downstairs, where Lestrade is frowning over a mobile.

“We found her phone,” he says, looking up at them as they approach. “You got anything?”

Sherlock explains about the boyfriend, looking around the room distractedly as he speaks. Lestrade gives John a questioning look, but John just shrugs.

“So we’ve got to find the boyfriend?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock hands him the photo ID. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he says.

Lestrade nods. “Well...thanks. Sorry for calling you down for something so simple. Though I’m not sure we would have reached the boyfriend conclusion quite as quickly without you.”

Sherlock turns away and heads for the front door.

“See you, Greg,” says John. He catches up to Sherlock with a few quick steps. “So...where are we going, and why can’t we tell anyone?”

“Stealth, John. You think any of those officers know the first thing about stealth? They’ll have Ryder running away and hiding before we’re able to approach him.”

They walk down the street in the lightly filtered sunlight. Sherlock looks to either side, then turns around abruptly and walks in the other direction.

“Um...and again, we’re going where, exactly?” asks John.

Sherlock slows and points to the sidewalk. There’s a tiny smear of blood on the pavement. As usual, it’s something that John, or anyone without Sherlock’s hawk-eyes would have noticed.

“He’s watching,” Sherlock says. “And waiting. Down an alleyway, I’d guess, considering this is a mostly residential area, and it looks like a good many people are home right now.”

John actually finds the alley before Sherlock does. He looks up ahead and sees an out-of-the-way little spot between two closed restaurants. It has a perfect view of the victim’s house, but is far enough away that no one from the crime scene would think twice about seeing anyone there.

“Um...Sherlock,” says John. He nudges Sherlock with his elbow and nods his head in the direction of the alley. Sherlock’s jaw sets, and John knows that they’ve found the right place.

They approach the alley nonchalantly, and when they first peek inside, it appears to be empty. There is a full skip at the end, and cardboard boxes are stacked in messy piles to either side. Ryder is nowhere to be seen, but Sherlock’s eyes immediately focus on the skip.

“You know,” says John in a low voice. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this if he has a gun.”

“He’s unarmed,” Sherlock replies. “I saw the gun under the dresser in the bedroom. I left it there to occupy Lestrade.”

“Okay, well that doesn’t mean that he’s not dangerous.” Sherlock starts walking slowly down the alleyway, with John following close behind. John puts a hand to Sherlock’s back. “Be careful,” he whispers.

They are just about to pass by the skip when a pipe swings out in front of their feet. Sherlock jumps back just in time, knocking John to the ground. Ryder, a short, stout man with an unshaven face and fearful eyes, jumps out from where he had been crouching and tries to run past Sherlock. Sherlock grabs at him, and they both fall to the ground. Ryder is about to take a swing at Sherlock when John grabs his fist and twists it behind his back. Ryder yells out in pain, but manages to wiggle himself out of John’s grip.

Sherlock is blocking the exit, reaching for the phone in his pocket. John can tell already that he doesn’t have enough time to call Lestrade. Ryder is on the ground, crawling for the pipe that he dropped. When John lunges to knock it away, Ryder kicks him in the shins, causing John to stumble to the ground. Ryder grabs the pipe and smacks John in the hand before jumping up towards Sherlock.

John swears and wrings his hand back and forth. Thankfully, Ryder wasn’t able to get enough power behind his swing to do any actual damage. John sees him approaching Sherlock while Sherlock is looking at his phone.

“Sherlock!” he yells. Sherlock turns around and ducks out of the way just in time to avoid Ryder’s swing. When Ryder sees his opening, he tries to run out of the alley. John tackles him from behind, and they struggle back and forth. Sherlock tries to pull the pipe from Ryder’s grip, but Ryder holds tight. He pushes John off with a strong kick to the stomach, then punches him in the face, just missing John’s eye.

John doubles over and blinks rapidly, trying to get his eyesight back to normal. He can hear movement in the background, and the sound of the pipe hitting the brick wall of a building. Then there is a soft “oof” that sounds like it came from Sherlock. John looks up, the world still looking vaguely blurry. Ryder has Sherlock pinned to the wall, and is pressing the pipe to his throat. He’s stronger than Sherlock, and Sherlock is struggling against him, but can’t seem to get free. His face begins turning red.

John comes up behind Ryder and pulls him away with an arm around his neck. Sherlock grabs the pipe as Ryder stumbles backwards, and John throws Ryder to the ground and knocks him out cold with two swift punches to the side of the head.

John looks up to where Sherlock is staring at him, gasping for air and coughing.

“Are you alright?” John asks.

“You saved me,” Sherlock says in a raspy murmur. “You always fucking save me.” John’s eyes widen slightly, because Sherlock almost never curses. He’s about to speak when Lestrade and two other officers appear at the end of the alleyway.

“You alright?” Lestrade asks. He walks towards them, looking down at Ryder, then between Sherlock and John as if he’s expecting something.

“Um, yeah,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t speak. He walks away and paces back and forth towards the end of the alleyway as John explains what happened to Lestrade.

“You guys can’t do this,” Lestrade complains. “You’re not fucking vigilantes, next time just let me know what’s going on and we’ll take care of it. It’s what we’re trained to do.”

John nods, sheepishly. “Yeah, sorry.” He feels slightly guilty, but a thread of adrenaline is still rushing through his body, and it feels much too good for him to ever consider stopping. He looks down the alley at Sherlock, who is now watching him with an intense expression.

“We’ve got to—can we go?” John asks.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Go,” he says. “Just...try to keep a leash on him next time, would you?”

\---

The cab ride home is too long, and the air is thick with tension. Sherlock won’t stop looking at John, so John turns towards the window to distract himself. Sherlock shifts to sit next to him and leans to the side, pressing two fingers lightly to the skin behind John’s ear. John closes his eyes.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a low whisper. Sherlock doesn’t answer, just traces his fingers down John’s jawline before moving back to the other side of the cab. He takes out his phone and sends a quick text. John feels his own phone vibrate in his pocket.

_20 Dec._  
 _15:37_  
 _I want to have sex with you. SH_

John laughs, softly, and types a quick reply.

_20 Dec._  
 _15:37_  
 _i’d deduced that. surely you can wait til we get home?_

When Sherlock reads the reply, he gives an irritated groan and shifts in his seat, parting his legs a little wider. John swallows hard and looks back out the window.

\---

They tumble into the flat with no hint of grace. John wants to treat Sherlock gently, afraid that he was bruised and battered in the fight. Sherlock is having none of that. As soon as the door closes, he presses John up against it.

“Do you have any idea how many times I would have died, were it not for you?” he asks. He kisses John before John can answer. One hand cups John’s face, the other slides under his jumper.

John breaks away. “Fuck,” he says. “Your gloves are cold.” Sherlock loosens one glove and puts his fingertip to John’s mouth. When John bites down on the finger of the glove, Sherlock pulls his hand away, and it slips off between John's teeth. John opens his mouth, letting the glove fall to the ground.

“Better,” he murmurs. Sherlock takes off his other glove behind John’s back as they start kissing again.

It’s not an ideal situation. They’re both still wearing their coats, and John can smell the cold on the fabric of Sherlock’s scarf. There’s a metallic tang of blood-scent in the air, and the wool of Sherlock’s sleeves are beginning to irritate the skin on John’s back.

“Can we...can we take off some clothes?” John asks.

Sherlock pauses and grins. He takes a few steps back, and slowly unbuttons his coat, maintaining eye contact with John as he lets it slip from his shoulders.

John laughs. “You are such a show-off.” He removes his own jacket with a complete lack of showmanship and tosses it aside. Sherlock grips him by the front of his jumper and pulls him forward until John almost trips into him. He wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck to keep from falling. Sherlock must like this, because he starts kissing John deeper than before.

They start moving towards the sofa, since the bedroom seems a bit too far away. Sherlock spins them around until John’s legs hit the sofa cushion and he sits down, Sherlock straddling his hips. John moves one hand to rub over Sherlock’s erection in his trousers. Sherlock pulls away from John’ mouth with a gasp. He’s looking down at John with glassy eyes when John speaks.

“Lay down,” he says. He wraps an arm around Sherlock and moves him gently off of his lap. Sherlock lies back, his head resting on the arm of the sofa, atop their Union Jack pillow. His eyelids are heavy, and he looks up at John with a slight frown as John starts to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you doing?” he asks. John kisses down Sherlock's chest with the undoing of each unbutton. “This is supposed to be about you.”

John starts unfastening Sherlock’s trousers. “What, a ‘thank you’ for saving your life? I don’t need a thank you.” Sherlock lifts his hips up, and John pulls his pants down just enough to reveal his cock, hard and reaching towards his stomach. John leaves Sherlock’s trousers around his thighs, because he knows Sherlock likes the feeling of restriction.

Sherlock’s hands are gripping the sofa cushion. John sees his white knuckles, and lifts one hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. Sherlock smiles cheekily and outstretches one finger, putting it to John’s mouth until John sucks it in, swirling his tongue around it in a hint of what’s to come.

“Why are you still dressed?” Sherlock asks. John pulls off his jumper and tosses it at Sherlock’s face. When it falls away, Sherlock is grinning.

The moment has turned from their usual adrenaline-fuelled post-case sex, to something softer. As much as he loves the intensity and passion of their usual, John thinks he prefers this. He enjoys the way Sherlock watches his fingers as John unbuttons his own shirt, and the way Sherlock has moved both of his hands to John’s legs, rubbing over them tenderly in a way that John suspects he is unaware of. When John slips his shirt off of his shoulders and tosses it to the ground, Sherlock’s eyes roam over his chest, lingering over the scar on his shoulder.

“You’ll never get over the scar, will you?” John asks.

Sherlock’s smile has faded. He looks up to meet John’s eyes, and what John sees there makes him lean down and kiss Sherlock slowly and thoroughly. He brings his hands to either side of Sherlock’s neck and smoothes them along his collarbone and down his chest, rubbing over his nipples and sliding down to his hips. He settles back between Sherlock’s legs and leans forward to mouth at the head of his cock. Sherlock’s hips jerk forward of their own account, and John pins them down gently with both hands before taking Sherlock entirely into his mouth.

“John—” Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his spine arching off the sofa. John closes his eyes and hums in response, and Sherlock’s hips buck forward again from the vibration.

John scratches his nails lightly over Sherlock’s hip bone and around the edge of his pubic hair. He pulls back and takes a breath, smelling the deep musk of Sherlock’s arousal, then bobs his head forward and back. Sherlock is taking small gasping breaths through his mouth. He has brought his hands up to grip the sides of the pillow beneath his head.

Sherlock’s enthusiastic responsiveness is making John strain against his own trousers. He doesn’t bother to open them at first, just rubs a palm over his erection in the same rhythm he uses on Sherlock. Soon, however, he begins to lose his coordination. Sherlock’s breaths are turning into whimpers, so John focuses all his attention on him. He holds down Sherlock’s hips tightly, and Sherlock sucks in a deep breath at the strength of John's hands. John only needs to hum around Sherlock's cock once more to send him over the edge. John swallows around him as he unbuttons his own trousers with one hand. Sherlock is still for only a few moments before he waves John’s hands away and leans up on one elbow to give him a few strokes, sucking in a sharp breath when John comes over Sherlock’s stomach.

John slumps forward onto Sherlock, completely ignoring the stickiness between them. Sherlock runs his clean hand through John’s hair as John catches his breath.

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You’re welcome.”

“For more than...just that.”

“I know.”

John picks his jumper up off of the floor and uses it to clean off Sherlock’s stomach and his own chest. He tosses it back on the floor with a faint grimace, then moves up to lie half-over Sherlock on the sofa.

They rest together in silence for a long time before they fall asleep.

\---

[[You have reached the BAMF!John ending](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/11267588576/i-rewatched-the-great-game-again-recently-and)]


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